


honey greased into the creases

by thedevilbites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst?, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Happy endingish, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Loss of Control, Manipulation, Sexual Content, Trauma, ginny coming to terms with all her baggage, ginny's weird sixth sense, her sixth sense is tom riddle damn, overcoming trauma kind of, their relationship is a literal pendulum swinging from "bat shit crazy" to "fuck me now", tom is dark damn but we like it like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:28:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24778414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilbites/pseuds/thedevilbites
Summary: Tom’s mouth curls into a smirk.“Shouldn’t you be screaming?” His voice settles over her like a puddle of grease sliding down her spine, and she just barely represses a shiver.“Oh.” She hears herself say, voice tiny and delicate and atrociously horrendouslymutinouslysoft as she meets his gaze. “I—I forgot.”
Relationships: Tom Riddle & Ginny Weasley, Tom Riddle/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	honey greased into the creases

**Author's Note:**

> so...this happened

It trickles down her throat like golden, sun-burnt molasses, crystallizes into something thick, something heavy; sugary syrupy sweetness lacquering the inside of her swollen trachea until she can’t think can’t speak can’t _breathe._

He’s still here. 

Ginny can _feel_ him.

—

She’s bent over her transfiguration essay during her free period, tucked away in the back of the library — the dusty stacks oddly labelled G-B for reasons she doesn’t quite care to investigate — when he materializes next to her.

Ginny hesitates for one fleeting second before carefully putting her quill down on the antique, white-washed table she’s come to think of as her own, making sure she doesn’t get any ink splotches onto her paper. 

She folds her hands in her lap. Picks at the loose, gummy red flesh around her cuticle. 

Then, Ginny turns her head exactly fifty four degrees, and looks her worst nightmare squarely in the eyes.

She traces the slope of his jaw, where his pale skin gives way to obscenely dark hair, the empty slant of his lips, thin and pale but just the right shade of dusty pink to be considered attractive; desirable and hypnotic and _worthy_ of attention. Of praise and respect and gushing, perfectly shy giggles from packs of girls fluttering like harpies all around him.

His face is blank, eyes empty as he stares at her, or, rather, at a stray lock of hair that’s drifted onto her forehead. He’s perfectly impassive. Neutral and guarded and carefully _carefully_ controlled, just like she remembers. Some part of her distantly notes that he doesn’t have his wand, so she must be dreaming, must be hallucinating, must be a mere second away from going into anaphylactic shock. 

There’s a faint fluttering in her chest, like something is stretching and unfurling and wrapping itself tighter tighter _tighter_ around her rib cage. She frowns. She’s forgetting something. 

Tom’s mouth curls into a smirk.

“Shouldn’t you be screaming?” His voice settles over her like a puddle of grease sliding down her spine, and she just barely represses a shiver. 

“Oh.” She hears herself say, voice tiny and delicate and atrociously horrendously _mutinously_ soft as she meets his gaze. “I—I forgot.”

She counts to three before she stops thinking entirely—Ginny takes a deep breath, and _howls._

—

Later, much much later, after visits to the infirmary and a slew of various, completely unnecessary (but brewed at the request of one furious Molly Weasley) healing potions and mindless glasses of pumpkin juice pushed into her trembling hands Ginny collapses —finally— into her bed. And she lets herself think.

Lets her mind _wander._

Remember whispers that prickled at the base of her scalp and lies that licked dangerously close to the nape of her neck and hushed, soft-spoken praises that had her curling cramping _crimping_ her toes into the red-and-gold shag carpet. She retraces his movements with the calloused pad of her index finger in the dull aching grayness of her dreams; how he had effortlessly sensually _delicately_ peeled back her skin her personality her very _soul_ layer by layer with each hurried scrawl of her quill, leaving her shrunken and desperate and vulnerable like a twitching exposed nerve. 

How he did it without a second thought. Without even trying. 

How he left her breathless and scattered into perfectly symmetrical puzzle pieces and _taut tight coiled-up_ like a wire and how she was so so so sleepy and hazy and warm with him besides her.

She doesn’t know whether to feel enraged or outraged or just plain terrified.

Probably the latter.

But she’s restless and exhausted and all she wants is to _pass out,_ so when she feels long fingers press firmly on the inside of her wrist, brushing against her pulse point with the callous air of authority she’s so used to, she lets go of a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

She falls asleep with Tom Riddle’s fingers latched onto her hand, blunt-cut nails digging into her flesh. 

—

It’s wet and cold and so so _sticky_ —she’s suddenly, very deliberately transported back years and years: the scrape of gritty sidewalk at her back, blinking wildly desperately hopelessly at the midday sun, the undulating terror that seized her as Fred held her down, his ratty old shorts stuffed in her mouth, saliva-slick, while George rucked her bright green t-shirt up and smashed _snails_ into her bare stomach.

She doesn’t remember when they let her go, but she does remember bitter, private snickering and yellowing bruises and the sour taste of pre-pubescent boy sweat in her mouth for weeks to come.

She remembers cheeks caked with tear stains like rivulets of mud. Passing the salt to George at dinner and forcing herself not to flinch when his knuckles lightly brush the tips of her fingers.

That little crack of something in her chest breaking. Dying. Suffocating. 

But that was back then, and this is _now._

Now now now _now_ , in the dark, alone, in her own bed, with her cheeks flaming and another face staring down at her and a nasty twitch to Tom’s cruel _sharp_ smile that's designed polished _engineered_ to hurt; meant to leave her covered in something ruby red. Jewel-bright.

She shivers, and the movement jostles her bones. Rearranges the vertebrates in her spine.

“Get off me,” she sputters, angry and loud at first but then her voice breaks halfway, fading and weakening and seeping; drowning in helplessness and the sour taste of resentment forced through her parted lips.

His hand clamps around her mouth and she flails spasms _chokes_. Sucks in sweat and the salty flakes of his waxy, pale flesh and the blinding white-hot arousal pressed into the creases of his palms.

He licks her neck. 

She lets him. 

—

Ginny thinks he once offered to kill them.

She’d paused, cast an errant, distracted glance around her room out of habit, ink coalescing into a tiny black bead on the tip of her quill.

 _You’d really do that for me?_ She’d wrote, heart jumping merrily in her throat, the beginnings of something warm blossoming in her chest because yes, this is what was missing, what she truly wanted. Craved. _Ached_ for. To be cared about loved protected _worshiped._

 _I’d do many things for you, Ginerva_ , came his reply in delicate loopy cursive. 

She’d read it just as he wanted her to: a testament to his devotion and his pure unbridled adoration instead of the bitter truth that lay nestled in the core of all his replies; empty messages that were short and clipped and perfunctory vague, gift-wrapped for her to fall in love with. 

Lies fed to her creamy and smooth like clockwork.

She knows better, now.

But knowing better doesn’t take away the lightning-coil of heat tightening the pit of her stomach like a screw when she thinks back to his words.

He would have killed them for her. Because they _hurt_ her. Because they _wronged_ her.

She exhales noisily, presses a damp fist to her mouth, and tries to think about anything other than him.

—

“Do you like me, Tom?”

He stiffens slightly, casting a languid glance at the books around him before picking a random one from the shelf — _Nicholas’ Gruesome Guide to Ghouls, Gremlins and Gargoyles_ — and idly flipping through it. The thin lock of hair he was playing with slips from where it was twisted around his index finger, and the faint tugging sensation in Ginny’s scalp dissipates. 

“ _Like_ you,” he muses, an amused lilt to his voice, trailing a finger down a particular yellowing page that she can’t see the contents of, before sliding his eyes to hers. Analyzing. Cataloguing her reaction and, no doubt, storing it away for _later use._

“You’ve...served a purpose for me in the past,” he says, eyes gleaming as Ginny’s whole body flinches at the callous mention of being laid bare and sucked dry like a prune, “but, yes, _Ginerva,_ ” he grins, rolling her name around in his mouth like it’s a sparkling spearmint candy, “I’d have to say that I have grown rather fond of you.”

“But,” he continues, closing the book and slotting it neatly in its place, carefully rapping his knuckles against the gilded spine, “I’m much more interested to know why you care.”

Her first reaction is to _spit_ at him. Her second, arguably more appropriate, reaction is to tell him that he has no _goddamn right_ to hear a single fucking _one_ of her thoughts anymore and he can kindly _shove_ his inane questions up his ass, thank you very much. 

Ginny wonders what he’s doing, what he thinks he’s _playing at_ trying to manipulate her like this, and then remembers she’s the one who asked the question. 

“Mm, sweetheart?” He probes, fingers curling around her lock of hair again and tugging, harsh enough this time for her head to snap towards him.

She grits her teeth, and stares at him.

He stares right back.

—

She meshes her lips together, _hard,_ wipes violently at the light sheen of sweat on her forehead. Ginny tries desperately to push down the bubbling _nauseating_ embarrassment of failing to brew this _goddamn_ potion with half the class watching her screw up instead of doing their own bloody work. 

Her first day in Advanced Potions and she’s honestly considering just giving up already because she doesn’t have the brains like Hermione and isn’t naturally talented like Harry and clearly everyone in the class _hates her_ — giggles erupted around the room as soon as she walked in — _and_ if she has to chase these fucking _demons_ around with her knife anymore, flailing around like a skittish colt, she’s going to give herself an aneurysm—

“Crush them, _Ginerva._ ”

She stops dead in her tracks, fingers locked around the blade in her hand.

“Um,” she bleats, glancing furtively around the room just in time to see Professor Snape crack Oliver Wood upside the head with the Quidditch section of the Daily Prophet. No one seems to notice the reincarnated future Dark Lord standing next to her, brushing a finger lazily over the smooth stone table.

Still, she pitches her voice low and warily hides her words in the sweep of her hair, as she hisses, “What are you doing here?”

Tom glances at her briefly sinuously _archly,_ unamused by her anger, robes twisting behind him as he walks around the table and gracefully pinches a wiggling sopophorus bean between his index finger and thumb.

“Helping you, silly,” he murmurs, and then gives her a slow, _serpentine_ once-over, eyes fanning over the delicate wings of her collarbones and the slope of her cheekbones and the murderous twist of her lips.

Her cheeks heat up, and something warm pools in the pit of her belly which is—absolutely _ridiculous_ so Ginny marches over to him, snatches the bean-from-hell out of his waiting palm and _stabs_ him. The blade sinks deep into the meat of his thigh, and Tom’s lips turn white, all the color draining from his face. 

His lips part. He _blinks_ at her. 

“ _Stop._ ” she spits at him, seeing red lick up the corners of her vision— she yanks the blade out of his thigh in one smooth motion, then spins on her heel and violently jams the bean against the table— “ _Sexually. Objectifying. Me._ ” 

There’s still a puddle of sopophorus juice left on the table when she stuffs her wand in the pocket of her robe, grabs her books, and whirls out of the classroom without finishing the lesson.

She doesn’t look back, and Tom doesn’t follow her, but her neck prickles and her scalp tingles and something in her chest _hurts._

Her hands start to shake so bad that she drops her textbooks on the floor before she can make it to her dormitory.

—

“You can’t just _do_ things like that.”

His lips thin into a wry smile, eyes trained on her own, fiddling with the cuff of her bright red jumper. There’s a gleaming yellow “G” on the front that her grandma embroidered last Christmas.

Ginny sneaks a brief glance at his thigh. She knows there won’t be a scar. There won’t even be a mark. He’s long healed it, anyway. 

Tom cocks his head, tapping one long elegant finger once, twice, three times against the inside of her wrist. She shivers. His hands are cold. 

“I think you’re forgetting that I can do a lot more than that, _Ginerva.”_ He arches an eyebrow at her.

Ginny forces herself to breathe. She lifts her chin up higher, and with her free hand casts a muffliato around them.

Tom’s smile deepens.

She swears that this time she won’t scream.

—

Her body contorts. Spasms. 

_Twists._

He stops when she tries to concuss herself on her bedpost. 

She’s left panting, and her vision swims and wavers and whites out and she _floats._

She’s confused, though. She’s not used to his mercy.

—

They don’t talk about it, afterwards.

She’s okay with that, really, she _is._

Every time she wakes up _alive,_ with his smirk in her dreams and her wand neatly arranged parallel to her books on her nightstand, she _thanks_ him. 

_Abuse,_ Ginny thinks, blindly fumbling for a pair of socks while simultaneously trying to yank her shoes on—she’s 17 minutes late to her first class—should come with a fucking _instructions_ manual.

She purses her lips at the nightstand for a brief, fleeting second. Then she _runs._

—

She decides to skip class when she skids into the Great Hall and realizes she’s wearing two different shoes, which, well, maybe would be deemed acceptable if she was Luna Lovegood—but she _isn’t,_ and she has a slight migraine from...last night and she _really_ doesn’t feel like dealing with all this today—so she spins on her heel and begins the walk back, still panting a little from the run. 

The dormitory is empty, as expected.

She’s just snuggled deep under the covers, stretching her legs, digging her toes into the red-and-white plaid sheets when the hairs on the nape of her neck stand up. Her heart beat spikes.

Ginny can feel Tom smile from across the room. She reaches for him blindly, one hand draped over her eyes with the other daintily outstretched towards him, like she’s a queen. Royalty. Respectable. To be treated with _care._

She hears nothing, and then his hand is sliding into hers, interlacing their fingers and it’s all smooth and ice-cold and, if she didn’t know any better, _careful,_ like tip-toeing on a half-frozen lake with thawing ice.

There’s warm breath on her neck. 

“Did you _miss_ me, Ginerva?”

Her smile breaks her face in half, heavy and wide and _thick._ There’s a pinch at her throat, blunt teeth nicking her windpipe; Ginny’s gasping, _loudly_ , twisting her body her legs her hips, arching her back higher and higher off the bed for him, till she’s balancing dangerously on the crown of her head and her thighs. 

His teeth close around her clavicle, and her cheeks pink, a rush of heat swirling low in her stomach. 

She glances up at him, back trembling from exertion, and he’s looking back at her carefully. Expectantly.

He bends down, never breaking eye contact, and bites her again. Slow, this time. Hard. So she feels it. So it _hurts._

“You’re going to break me,” she moans, _pants,_ feels sweat sliding down her spine, greasing her fingers and toes, pooling in the notches of her collarbones. 

“And?” He drawls, raising an eyebrow, dragging a finger over her sternum, and she blinks back breathlessly. Collapses onto her back, finally, limbs aching. 

She grins, breathless, choking on air. “ _And_ I’m going to let you.”

**Author's Note:**

> letter to the script writers:
> 
> the ginny/tom compatibility is so underplayed in the movies
> 
> the people are thirsty for gin and tonic 
> 
> give them gin and tonic 
> 
> *send*


End file.
